Boromir
by LondonBelow
Summary: In post-War Gondor, before Faramir and Elessar can establish political boundaries, Elessar overhears Faramir speaking to Boromir. PG for safety


Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction written only for fun. No profit is being made. I do not own any recognizable characters and/or places mentioned in this story.

Faramir loved mornings. As he stood by the window, staring out at the deep abyss of the sky, he breathed in the frigid morning air and smiled. No matter what season, Faramir knew, morning air was always coldest and purest. He felt as though something crystal in that cold had made his nose bleed. Faramir saluted the invisible sun.

"I love mornings," Faramir said. "There's such promise to them, such clarity. I feel as though I know absolutely everything." Sighing, then grinning, he added, "Of course, I _sound _like a twelve-year-old romantic. I never could speak poetry, you know, Boromir."

Below the sky, the city wall was a shambles. The many homeless lived in tents or quickly raised shanties. They would need housing before winter. More urgent, bodies-Rohirrim, Gondorian, easterling, oliphaunt, orc-lay strewn across the Pelennor. "I hate it," Faramir confided, his voice bitter. "I hate that the dead must have priority over the living." Half-scolding himself, he continued, "Oh, I recognize the necessity, that bodies must be burned ere a stifling rot pervades every home in Minas Tirith." He glanced up, as though expecting the sun to have risen to high noon in the past minute.

"Boromir."

Lying curled up on Faramir's bed, Boromir raised one bleary eye and lowered it again in protest. It was an inhumane hour at which to wake a fellow!

"I worry about the women and children." Undeterred, Faramir spoke as though Boromir listened intently. "What will they do, those who cannot work? There will be orphans of this war with none to care for them, none to love them. Still, it must be worse in Rohan. Theirs have not yet returned. King Eomer is here in Minas Tirith yet."

Faramir glanced at Boromir. The gentle rise and fall of his chest as his lungs filled and emptied betrayed his sleep. "All right," Faramir said, his voice half laughter, "be that way. Neh." He stuck out his tongue, mocking, then laughed at himself. "Actually, I truly must go. Pleasant dreams, silly bugger."

Once again, Faramir found himself on the wrong side of the new King of Gondor's temper. That happened to him rather often in the mornings. The steward had learned, very quickly, that Elessar had no fondness for the early hours. "I only mean it is unhealthy, Faramir."

The twelve-year-old in Faramir rolled his eyes. _Did my brother ask you to mother me? It's the sort of thing Boromir would have done, meaning well. _"With all respects, Sire, it is my choice." _What sort of a man gets into a strop because his steward doesn't like to eat much in the mornings? _Faramir wondered, masticating. _Besides which, toasted bread is lovely. And I've put butter and jam on it._ He knew, though he despised the knowledge, that he wanted the king to like him.

"Right, I-I apologize. Mornings are not the best of times for me."

_Perhaps they would be better if you chose to start them with bread as opposed to butchery._ "I understand completely, Sire."

Legolas, the Elf who Faramir found an agreeable fellow, commented, "Do you remember when you were thirteen, and you argued that you should be allowed to sleep until afternoons because in the mornings you have always been such a grumpy-"

"Yes, thank you, I do remember." The king narrowed his eyes at Legolas, which brought a round of laughter from the Elf and from Gimli. Faramir noticed that the others present-King Eomer and Queen Arwen-covered their mouths politely to hide their grins. Although, as the steward had observed, Eomer liked mornings no more than Elessar did.

_Ouch._ Faramir was losing his fondness for mornings, as well. He could feel fat and sugar attacking the walls of his stomach. Faramir grimaced.

"Are you all right, Faramir?"

_Yes, but I suppose if you were just a bit more patronizing…_

Before Faramir could answer, Legolas interrupted the unbegun conversation, "Estel, stop antagonizing him."

"I am not antagonizing him," Elessar replied. "I was simply asking."

"You were antagonizing," Legolas informed him quite matter-of-factly. "You do it all the time, Estel."

Faramir coughed discreetly. "Excuse me, gentlemen, this may not be my place to say but, really, is it not too early in the day for bloodshed?" He smiled to indicate that he had been jesting, but not too blatantly-he hardly wanted to be thought a fool. "And yes, I am fine, thank you for asking," he added belatedly.

As soon as it was decent, Faramir excused himself, strode from the room and bolted back to his bedchamber. "Ugh, Boromir, I feel as though I will be sick! What do I do wrong, do you think?" he asked. In response, Boromir snored. Faramir snickered. "Well, at least you are unworried! I, on the other hand, have to work with this man until I die." With a shrug, Faramir added, "Or, until he does. It's no treason to say," he hastily assured Boromir, "not when I speak the truth."

Boromir slept on.

In the corridor, Elessar froze. He meant to apologize to Faramir, for he truly was sorry. After Faramir's swift departure, Legolas had given him the sort of lecture that made him feel like a gangly teen caught smoking a pipe out his bedroom window. He rubbed his ear at the memory. Well, whatever his age, he recognized that he had mistreated Faramir and wished to make amends.

That is, until he heard a disturbing conversation.

"What do you think, Boromir?" Faramir laughed, not an out-and-out laugh because that was not the way Faramir ever laughed, but rather a half-snort chuckle that would have been rude from anyone else, but somehow seemed good-natured coming from Faramir. "I know, I know, blue. Did I-ouch, bloody buttons-did I overreact this morning? I may have been somewhat… impolite…"

Elessar turned and hurried off. He had no right to eavesdrop, but from what he had heard, his steward was a very unwell man! _Oh, my… What am I to do about it, then?_ Because Faramir appeared to be unaware of his brother's death, Elessar worried. This was indeed ill news.

Luckily for Faramir, he had been assigned a task and needed not see the king throughout the day. However, after hours of recording names, ages, and relations in a ledger and distributing bowls of stew, Faramir found himself with an ache that went half through his bones. _At least it is only halfway,_ he thought, weakly amusing himself.

The living were Faramir's task. The homeless horde of Minas Tirith was his too look after, feed, record and rehouse. He had men working for him, of course, but found the philanthropist who ruled him bursting forth and undertaking every task with as much dedication as he could summon. After only a few days at the task, Faramir fell into his bed exhausted before dark every evening. He had asked to help clear the bodies on the Pelennor, but the king had refused him. "I will need your help in the very near future, Faramir, and cannot afford to have you exhaust yourself."

Faramir wondered what the king could possibly have meant. His current, thankless job left him emotionally more drained than a reservoir in a desert. Contrary to the self-satisfied feeling he might have gained from having done his best, every night Faramir used the last of his energy to fight off the negative thoughts haranguing him for not doing better.

Faramir blinked. Had someone said his name? Ah, yes, that would explain all the eyes staring at him. "Pardon?"

"We asked if you would like to come with us tonight," Legolas said.

"We're going for a piss-up," Eomer added.

"Thank you, but I cannot." Faramir hoped his decline was sufficiently polite. His brother's words echoed in his mind:_ If you ever, ever touch a drop, Faramir, ever again!_ "But may your drunkenness result in jollity and few head-aches tomorrow morning," he added. It did not have the desired effect: the king scowled at him. "My liege?" Faramir asked. "Is something the matter?"

Elessar replied, "No, not at all. I am sorry, I simply feel you have a reason in refusing our advances of friendship. We mean you well, Faramir."

_How in all the trees of Fangorn Forest did he draw that conclusion?_ "I do not drink alcohol, Sire," Faramir explained. Elessar raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "I am not attempting to be anti-social." He appealed to the others with a look of mild pleading. No one jumped to his defense. "Have you ever watched a drunk man," Faramir queried, "without being drunk yourself?" The look on the others' faces answered him. Only Legolas and Eomer knew to what he referred. The king and Gimli, clearly, spent their time among drunken men in a state of inebriation.

"Perhaps another time," Eomer suggested, "and another activity."

Faramir smiled gratefully. "Certainly. If you would all excuse me, now, I must retire." He bowed politely and retreated.

Legolas glared at Elessar and applauded sarcastically. "I _like_ Faramir," he informed his friend tartly.

"So do I!" Elessar shot back. "I think he dislikes us"

"I think you owe him an apology," Eomer said. "He's shy, always has been. You are too forward. It frightens him."

Curious, no longer defensively, the King of Gondor asked, "Have you known Faramir long?"

Eomer nodded. "I knew him when we were younger. Eowyn and I were both sobered, at the time. He hates a fuss and a ruckus, and he is not like other people. He does not react as most people would."

So Eomer had seen right through him! "If I had known that… excuse me," Elessar too retreated, and sprinted down the corridor after his steward.

"Wait until you hear this one, Boromir," Faramir muttered, reaching for his door and thinking of the lock he had designed when he was younger. He never had completed the design. To Faramir's surprise, a gentle hand fell on his wrist.

"Faramir."

Faramir withdrew his hand. "My liege?"

"Don't! Please," Elessar added quickly. "Faramir, you allow me to refer to you without title, yet you will not return the informality. Eomer informs me I am too forward. Am I?" He hoped Faramir understood that he truly wished to know.

He didn't. "Of course not, Sire."

"Liar." At Faramir's well-concealed look of terror, Elessar added, "Be my friend, Faramir. That wasn't an order! I do like you." That earned him the beginnings of a smile. _Good._ Elessar went on, trusting his impulses, "You probably think I am the least political man in the world. I wanted to help. I never meant to be a bully, I just… I wanted you to argue with me."

Faramir allowed his surprise to show.

Elessar nodded. "Yes, Faramir, argue with me. I may be the king, but I am wrong on occasion, probably often! You know better than me."

"Sire, I-" Faramir began to protest, feeling it only his duty to do so, but Elessar interrupted with one gracefully dubious eyebrow. "Maybe- about a few things."

"Such as Gondor, Faramir," Elessar prodded. "Such as _people_. I need your help, Faramir. That was no lie. I respect you, Faramir."

Faramir blushed a deeper red than a rose whose father had walked in on it doing inappropriate things with a lady rose whose thorns had drawn his blood. "Really, Sire, I must protest that your intentions are ill. Are you trying to please your friends?" he asked, feeling shier than ever, having at last openly expressed himself.

Elessar prickled. "Absolutely not!" It was Faramir's turn to raise an eyebrow. "It's a flaw I've had since I was quite young. Being accused of something untrue bothers me. I hardly care if it is truth."

Faramir considered. He was so tired that at last he decided that he did not at all care.

"A clean slate, Faramir," Elessar proposed hurriedly. "Can we start over?"

Faramir offered a watery smile. _Trust a man you love in war, Little Brother,_ his brother would say. _In war, men are frightened. They think themselves near death. Their actions are those they expect never to have to face. You will make the truest friends and the deepest enemies in a war._ It had been quite a speech, for Boromir. "Of course."

"And, Faramir," Elessar said, halting his steward, who had turned to leave, "I am very worried about you."

"Whatever for?" Faramir inquired. He wasn't ill or even feeling poorly, other than his lethargy. "You're so bloody patronizing-" Suddenly wide awake, Faramir clapped a hand to his mouth. "Sorry," he said, not removing his hand, "I am so sorry, Sire"

Elessar chuckled. "That's all right, Faramir! Lovely! Something is wrong. Come, tell me."

Slowly, Faramir lowered his hand. "Nothing, Sire. I only meant, well, it is the bodies, Sire. On the Pelennor. There are so many, and they are soon going to swell, rot, emit the foul stench of death that will depress even the strongest hearts."

Elessar shook his head. "Faramir, _no._ That I will not permit."

"May I ask why?" Faramir ventured. He felt as though he stepped upon thin ice, with no manner of testing it but to rest his weight upon every sketchy patch. Yet something drew him forward, like a thin cord tied round his heart-the chance to befriend the king.

"Because I will not risk you," Elessar replied. "The brigade on the Pelennor has the highest crash rate of any."

Faramir nodded. "All right." He supposed that _did_ make sense, little as he wished to admit it. "Good night, Sire- oh, no! You mentioned worry. As to that…"

Elessar swallowed. Here was a field of delicate tread. "Faramir, I overheard earlier your, ahem, discussion. You were speaking with your brother. Faramir…" How could he possibly say this? How could one deliver news that might reduce the strongest of men to a shambles? He knew how Boromir had loved his brother, and assumed the feeling was returned.

But to the king's surprise, Faramir was giggling. Helpless, Faramir leaned against the door, giggling like a little girl. "Sire, forgive me," he choked out. "You must think… oh, oh! Forgive me!" For all his remorse, he could not control himself. Faramir grasped his sides as stitches bit into his kidneys. "Forgive me," he squeaked.

When at last Faramir had stopped his laughter, he straightened and faced the king. "I am not insane," he stated ironically. "One moment."

Faramir opened the door to his bedchamber and crossed the threshold. Elessar remained in the corridor, looking about. He liked this room. It held the essence of his young steward: piles of books near the bed, near the walls; rolls and rolls of parchment on the desk. Otherwise the room was so neat, it seemed the books were more useful ornamentation than mess.

A faint whistling brought Elessar's attention back to his steward. Faramir was kneeling on the ground. Abruptly he stopped whistling, listened intently, and, apparently satisfied, suggested, "Boromir? Come on, show me where you're hiding. Boromir?" All of this was said in a very soft voice.

Elessar realized how wrong he had been. He thought Faramir could not laugh. Now he saw, and heard, the truth. Faramir didn't giggle. He laughed, fully and innocently at once.

Boromir was no warrior. He was silly, nothing more than a shaggy puppy-literally! The dog had his front paws on Faramir's chest and was licking him mercilessly. Faramir's eyes were squeezed shut, but he could not swallow his amusement.

"So." Elessar knelt and scratched the puppy- whom he had difficulty thinking of as Boromir- at the base of his tail. "This is Boromir?"

Faramir grinned, remembering the injured creature brought to him not a year ago, his brother's words echoing in his head: _I'll tell you what, Fari: name him after me, play a few tricks on Father with that technicality, and we'll call it even!_


End file.
